When the panel popped up in front of him, Luca was sitting there watching the live broadcast of the Lansing's court proceedings on TV. The riots had already begun in Detroit, and the Lansing wasn't far behind. They were spreading across most of Michigan, creeping toward Chicago and southeastern Pennsylvania. Riots never stay contained in just one city—but Detroit's Black mobs were easily the most violent. If someone had handed them a nuclear button, Detroit would've been a smoking crater by now.
[Ding! Through your behind-the-scenes guidance and instigation, union boss Jimmy Hoffa has died, and the factional struggle ended prematurely. You have halted the internal power struggle within the International Brotherhood of Truck Drivers.]
[Obtained: Skill Fragments ×20]
[Skill Points +10]
[Vision +0.1]
The room was quiet—just the low hum of the TV. No gunshots, no fires, no screaming. Out here in the white-dominated suburbs, far from downtown, it felt like a completely different world. Heaven and hell, separated by a few miles.
Luca called Leon to confirm the details of Hoffa's death. According to plan, Hoffa was meant to die right after Philip's trial verdict and right as the riots ignited. If the Black mobs hadn't made a move, there were already Mafia plants embedded among the drivers waiting to act. The white agitators—the ones who provoked fights, beat Black protest leaders, and hurled racial slurs—had all been arranged by Luca too.
And if both those layers failed?
Then there was Frank Sheeran and Leon.
Frank would follow the original playbook: pick Hoffa up, then quietly make him disappear. Leon would simply pull the trigger himself. Both were reliable. Both knew how to keep their mouths shut.
Luca glanced at the panel again. The reward for Hoffa's death was… decent. Nothing spectacular. The real payoff would come from what followed—the riots, the gangs, the bloodletting across Detroit's East Side and beyond.
So how do you stop a riot like this?
You don't ... You crush it.
Michigan's National Guard rolled in with armored vehicles. Federal troops followed. Heavy machine guns were trained on every window along the streets—peek out, and you risked getting turned into a cautionary tale.
—Under military suppression, nearly ten thousand Black rioters were arrested. Dozens—maybe hundreds—were killed. That is the official numbers, of course.
Luca pushed himself up from the armrest.
"Time to go find that missing tanker truck."
The first day of the riots.
Hoffa's death hit the city like a boulder dropped into boiling oil, splashing chaos everywhere. Detroit's Mafia families, Black gangs, rioters, the truck drivers' union, business owners, even city hall—every force tied to this place got burned.
Within thirty minutes of Hoffa being shot, police and Mafia members forced their way through the riots and retrieved his body from the union hall.
Detroit wasn't just dangerous anymore—it was a war zone.
Black rioters looted everything they could get their hands on. Stores were smashed open. Goods were stolen. Molotov cocktails were tossed into gas stations, triggering explosions that lit up entire blocks. White people weren't the only targets—even a white dog walking down the street might get beaten for existing.
Cheers echoed as half the city burned. Gunfire rang nonstop.
That same evening, Detroit issued its highest-level emergency alert.
The riots had begun right after the court's sentencing that afternoon. Starting in the East and West Side slums, the unrest spread outward, covering a radius of nearly 30 kilometers.
Police were ordered not to fire.
Over 200 rioters had already been arrested.
Law enforcement admitted they didn't have the manpower to stop the looting. Their main job was escorting firefighters—who themselves were under attack—to burning sites. Even fire trucks were being vandalized mid-response.
The slogan in the streets?
"Burn the city down."
The police backed off—not just because of Philip's scandal and public pressure, but because they were simply outnumbered. Charge into thousands of rioters, and you'd get killed. Even protecting firefighters required extreme caution.
Watching all this unfold, Luca naturally didn't sit idle.
He coordinated with Detroit's Mafia families to carry out targeted assassinations—eliminating leaders and high-ranking members of major Black gangs, using the chaos as cover to dismantle their power base.
But someone was even more enthusiastic than Luca.
Bobby Mercer.
Hoffa's death snapped something inside him. The street fighter grabbed a shotgun and went on a rampage, focusing especially on groups like YBI. No fancy tricks—just raw, brutal efficiency. At that moment, he looked like a man possessed by Baba Yaga himself.
Unstoppable. Untouchable.
That night, in Detroit's northern suburbs, the major Mafia families gathered for a meeting. Luca, acting as the "judge," was present.
The topic was obvious: how to deal with the riots.
Defend or attack? Play it safe, or seize the chaos?
Interestingly, Luca—who had previously pushed for violence—now opposed escalation.
"There's no need for a full-scale war anymore," he said calmly. "The governor's already deploying interstate police and the National Guard."
He explained briefly. It wasn't exactly classified information; the announcement would go public soon anyway.
If the government was stepping in with military force, no one wanted extra trouble.
But there was another issue.
Hoffa.
His body had already been taken by his family.
At the mention of his name, the old men in the room fell quiet. Cigars burned nonstop, filling the air with thick smoke until the whole place looked like some hazy afterlife.
Through the smoke, Zerelli's face appeared—tired, heavy.
"I'm deeply saddened by Hoffa's death."
He spoke of their past—shared battles, alliances, the years they built power together. Many of the old men nodded. They had grown up in the same city, fought side by side, expanded together.
Without the Detroit Mafia, Hoffa wouldn't have risen.
Without Hoffa, neither would they.
Zerelli turned toward Luca—but the younger man's face was completely hidden in the smoke.
And for the first time, Zerelli truly understood.
Everything—the riots, Hoffa's death—it all traced back to one thing.
A tanker truck.
Luca's tanker truck.
Zerelli even began to suspect that Luca had orchestrated everything. That he had seen the cracks in the city, understood exactly where it would break—and with a gentle push, turned it into a nationwide catastrophe.
At the same time, he eliminated Hoffa.
And soon, the federal government would crush the riots and sweep away the gangs.
Everything standing in Luca's way… gone.
Like a clogged pipe that finally bursts.
The thought sent a chill down Zerelli's spine.
Working with someone like this—wouldn't that mean being used completely?
Meanwhile, Luca observed the old men calmly. To him, they weren't threats. They had grown old in comfort, lost their edge, and now just wanted peaceful endings.
And Luca was more than happy to grant that.
If only Hoffa had thought the same way…
A flicker of memory crossed his mind—Hoffa's furious, emotional face.
Once, they had walked the same path. When they first shook hands, did they ever imagine it would end like this?
The rope that bound them had been unbreakable.
But Hoffa… stubborn as a mule, would rather drag a corpse behind him than change direction.
As the meeting ended and everyone stepped outside, Zerelli looked out over the city.
Flames burned in the distance.
In the darkness, Detroit looked like a giant bonfire—fire fed by human lives, twisting into a massive, furious red face.
"Dove," Zerelli said quietly, "is this what you wanted? To destroy the entire city just to reach your goal?"
There's an old saying—only by rising from the ashes can something truly be reborn.
Luca didn't stop walking.
"Mr. Zerelli, I don't have the power to create something like this on my own. These flames were lit the moment slavery ended. They've burned before—and now they've ignited again."
"The Feds can put it out this time. But it won't disappear. It'll come back."
"What can we do?" Luca continued. "Control the timing. Preferably in winter—so at least we can warm ourselves by the fire."
Despite the inferno outside, Zerelli felt cold.
It was only October.
Detroit's winters always came early.
Zerelli exhaled slowly and followed behind him.
"Dove… I have to ask. Do you hate Black people?"
Luca smiled faintly.
"You know I own a club, right?"
"…Yeah."
"Do you know who runs the front? The guy greeting every guest?"
Luca glanced at him.
"He's Black."
Zerelli blinked, caught off guard. He had expected a completely different answer—something harsher.
Instead, he let out a quiet, bitter chuckle.
Maybe he had misunderstood Luca all along.
Luca handed him a business card.
"Come visit sometime. I can promise you—everyone in the SSR Club has their head on straight. Mr. Zerelli, you want peace. So do I."
Hoffa had been right about one thing.
Every struggle, in the end, is about establishing order.
And now?
The Black gangs were being wiped out.
A new order for Detroit's underworld was about to take shape.
And they would be the ones running it.
Zerelli accepted the card.
"We'll always be allies… right, Mr. Judge?"
It was the first time he had called Luca that.
"Allies hold the same rope," Luca said. "They help each other climb. I'm very generous when it comes to that."
Zerelli's feelings were complicated.
Luca was generous, yes—and extremely profitable to work with.
But he had also used them.
Used him.
Thinking back to his conversations with Hoffa… the advice he had given…
Zerelli smiled bitterly.
He thought he was helping.
In reality, he had pushed Hoffa step by step into the grave.
And Luca?
He got everything—and never showed his hand.
A chilling realization hit him.
If the old generation died off… who in Detroit could stand against Luca?
"I'll make sure my man remember this," Zerelli said quietly. "Even after I'm gone, they'll honor my will—and remain your allies."
"Pleasure doing business," Luca replied with a smile, shaking his hand.
At that moment, his phone buzzed.
It was the rapper—asking for help.
The riots had left his family homeless. Their house had already been burned down by rioters.
Luca reassured him and sent people to pick them up.
After hanging up, he turned back to Zerelli.
"Oh, one more thing."
"After the riots settle down… quietly get rid of Philip."
"That tanker truck isn't coming back. There's no reason for him to keep digging."
Zerelli felt a chill run down his spine.
"Is that… an execution order?"
"Yes."
One simple word.
And Philip's fate was sealed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on P Site/OrbisTranslate. Access 15 advanced chapters for just $3.
Additionally, I will release two bonus chapters for every 100 Stones received.